Chased Down All My Demons
by I've-Gotta-Be-Me
Summary: The aftermath of the Troubletones' mashup brings back some horrible memories for Kurt - memories he's tried to run from. Suddenly, he feels like his fourteen-year-old self again; unconfident, alone, lost. He's not that person anymore - not at all.


_A/N: Now, I don't know if this is any good or not, but I feel an obligation to say this: **Please know that some of the things in this story might be triggering or make some people uncomfortable**. Please, I ask that you heed this warning._

* * *

><p>This is it, this is the end.<p>

Somehow he feels like it should be a little more ceremonious than it is. Is this really what it all winds down to: a dark bathroom and an empty house? No friends to speak of, nothing to hold onto. His mind races for something – _anything_ – to cling onto. A person, an idol, a teacher, a stranger who's passed him in the hall and given him a smile for no apparent reason, a class he's enjoyed for all of two minutes - anything. Just _anything_.

He's coming up empty.

Everyone he knows turns a blind eye to him. They see right through his guise of an average teenager; his armor is invisible, leaving him vulnerable for attack. And oh does he get attacked. He reaches behind his neck and rubs the bruises that his peers had left from when they caught up to him after gym class. He lifts up his shirt to study his torso.

He hates what he sees. Absolutely _hates_ it.

He's pale, too thin, too tall, too frail. There's no winning in this world is there? Someone's too fat, then they're too skinny. One minute they're too ugly then they're hated on for being too beautiful. They're too dumb, but then they get their act together and they're too smart. It's always extremes, no middle ground, and Kurt's on the wrong end of the spectrum.

He grimaces as he turns from side to side, studying the ugly, purple bruises splotching his white skin. He's reminded of the vehemence he holds for his gym teacher, Mr. Nelson. The despicable man just sits back every gym period with his stupid t-shirt and gym shorts, his stupid sunglasses and a shiny, unused whistle hanging around his neck as he orders his students to go through the worst torture imaginable. This is his fault, these marks. He's the one who insisted the kids play dodgeball.

Kurt winced as he prodded one particularly hideous bruise. His fingerprints leave a white mark as the blood separates at his touch. The second he pulls away, the dark color returns, rushing to complete the gruesome shade of purple.

They'd pelted him with no mercy.

* * *

><p>Of course, Kurt had been the last to be chosen. His gym clothes had been practically falling off his figure – he'd lost a dramatic amount of weight since the beginning of the school year. The red gym shorts were shocking against his sickeningly pasty skin an knobby knees. He'd stood towards the back of the dwindling crowd as people were chosen to be on either team. He'd crossed his arms and ducked his head, hoping he'd be invisible like he always was.<p>

He _always_ was.

It was December and none of his teachers even knew his _name_. They barely looked at him as he walked through the door to class. True, he was trying to do his best to blend in. He'd wear what everyone else was: a boring t-shirt and jeans with some sneakers. He'd duck his head and hide behind textbooks. He sat towards the front of every room to avoid the jocks in the back of the classroom – closest to the door so he could make a quick escape the second that bell rang for dismissal.

He never raised his hand, he never spoke if he could help it. His teachers would call him Ken, Clark, Kane, Caleb, Chad, Cody – he'd even gotten a Riley once. They never even looked his way; it was like he was an empty desk. They would always pass his row one paper too short, as if he wasn't even there. If he was sleeping in class or reading a book, they would never say anything to him – they allowed it. He wasn't even worthy enough in their minds to occupy a _desk_. When they asked for "volunteers" he never worried about being picked against his will – they never chose him.

This was no exception.

He stood awkwardly in front of the two assembled teams, his arms crossed and the blood rushing to color his teeth. He kicked the floor and looked pointedly towards the red lines on the gym floor, hoping this torture would be ended any time soon.

The two team captains exchanged glances as if to say "No, _you _take him." There was a long silence punctured by some giggles from both sides. Kurt pretended not to hear the names they were calling him, but sometimes it was too difficult. He shut his eyes and willed the strength to endure just a few more moments of humiliation.

Mr. Nelson cleared his throat from where he sat on the bleachers.

"Someone pick him," he ordered, not looking up from his cell phone.

The newly appointed safety for McKinley's football team, Dylan, scoffed from the left side of the court. "We can't, Mr. N. The teams are already even. If one of us picks him, we'll be uneven and it won't be fair."

"Yeah," chimed in Jenny, the president of the chess team. She pushed up her glasses and crossed her arms. "Then the other team will have the advantage of one more person."

"Or not," someone called from behind Dylan.

The entire class laughed.

"Well, you'll just have to deal with the odd number," Mr. Nelson muttered.

"Did you hear that, Hummel? He just called you _odd_," Dylan taunted, walking closer to him. "I wouldn't say that. I'd say you were a _freak_," he hissed. The other students teemed with mutters of agreement.

Jenny piped up from her side of the court. "I guess you can be on my team, Hummel. Not that I _want_ you to be." She rolled her eyes. "You're just going to bring us down."

Mr. Nelson said nothing.

Kurt shuffled over to join her side. Already he knew this game would be trouble; it was the underdogs pitted against the Jocks and more athletic students. Even worse, it would go on and on in a continuous loop all period long. When a person got hit out, they'd wait out on the sidelines until an allotted time when they'd rejoin the game. So he couldn't even get himself hit on purpose and sit the rest of the game out. He'd have to be on the floor at all times.

He was shaking with fear as he stood at the back of the court, using the other kids as shields.

"On my mark," Mr. Nelson called. "3, 2, 1…"

And they were off.

It was chaos, utter and complete chaos. Kurt backed away as the other students ran towards the half-line to grab dodgeballs. He covered his face with his arms and ran as if his life depended on it. He made sure always to have someone to cower behind, always just _barely_ jumping out of reach of the dodgeballs. He ducked, jumped, flung himself out of the way, even hit the ground if he had to; he did whatever it took not to get hit. He didn't even dare pick up a stray ball when it rolled his way, because he knew what would happen the second after he threw it.

Suddenly he found himself in an impossible situation.

He was the only one left on his side of the court.

The other kids hadn't been rotating back into the game like they were supposed to. He looked at the kids on the sidelines in confusion. They grinned back at him evilly, a knowing glint in their eyes.

They'd planned this.

Worse, Mr. Nelson was no where to be found. Not that he would've done much to prevent anything, but at least he'd be there. But he'd received a call on his cell phone about fifteen minutes prior and had walked out of the gym to take the call. He hadn't returned.

Kurt looked over in horror as he noticed one of the jocks watching the door.

Dylan and the other jocks bounced the dodgeballs on the floor, smirking at him. He tried not to flinch as the loud bouncing sounds emanated throughout the gym. No one was speaking – they were all watching.

Kurt backed away, but for every step he took, they compensated with three of their own. He was backed up against the wall, but they'd just crossed the half-line. There were at least fifteen of them easily. Fifteen against one.

Kurt cowered against the wall, holding his hands in front of him. He could even bring himself to ask for mercy. Begging would only make things worse, he'd already found by experience. His lip was quivering as he remembered the bruises from his last beating hadn't even healed yet.

He bit down on his tongue and closed his eyes as the Jocks reared back their hands.

No one spoke.

Then there was pain – nothing but pain. They were hitting his head, his stomach, his legs, everywhere. The close proximity plus the force they were throwing the dodgeballs with was nothing short of agonizing. He fell to his knees with a loud thud against the slick gym floor. He scrambled to cover his head with his arms and bring his limbs as close together as possible, but it was of no use. They were closing in on him, hurling dodgeballs at his face, his back, wherever they could reach.

When they ran out of ammunition, they advanced on him and began kicking him. Kurt groaned as he received a swift foot to the stomach and another to his spine. Someone was stepping on his head, making him see stars. There were fists pounding against his arms and he heard a ripping of material as his shirt got tugged.

He found himself being lifted up off the ground and thrown into the gym wall. He groaned. Everything hurt. He took one step forward and received a deft punch to the face. He felt fresh, warm blood trickling out of his nose. He didn't even have time to wipe it away before receiving another blow to the jaw. His lip split, only adding to the amount of blood on his face. He could taste the bitter, rust flavor on his tongue.

Another punch to the gut aided by another to the ribs, from two different people.

Kurt gasped, unable to breathe for a moment. His hands shook as he clutched his chest and fell to the floor once again.

"He's coming back!" a voice called from the door. "Everyone get back in the game!"

Kurt had never felt more grateful for a teacher in his life. He rolled over onto his side and pulled his legs to his stomach, crying out as his bones cracked when he did so. He kept in the fetal position and tried not to move. Tears intermingled with blood, dripping onto the stainless gym floor.

"Hummel?" Mr. Nelson called, sounding rather bored. "Did you hurt yourself _again_?"

Kurt sniffled and attempted to nod his head. It burned, but he bit back a yell as he did so. He could already feel the marks forming.

"Go clean yourself up," the gym teacher instructed in his uninterested tone. "And don't let this happen again. I'm _sick_ of having to send you to the locker rooms early."

Kurt pushed himself off the floor with his less-hurt arm. He couldn't even stand up straight, bowing down against the sharp pain in his ribs. He didn't lift his head to meet Mr. Nelson's eyes, hoping to hide the worst of the bloodshed even though it was smeared against his cheeks and his wounds were still open.

Feeling every single set of eyes on him, he limped out of the gym.

* * *

><p>So this is how it ends. Alone. Not a friend in the world. No one to look up to, no one to go to for help. Every authority in his life had told him to put his head down and just take it. They tried to comfort him by saying college was going to be so much different and if only he could make it to gradation...<p>

_Make it to graduation_. As if it were some kind of feat. While other people would claim their high school years to be the best of their lives, he'd have to remember them as the worst of his? While everyone walked the hallways without fear and looked forward to lunch period with their friends, Kurt had to hide in bathrooms and eat lunch in empty classrooms.

That was all his teachers would offer him – an empty classroom to eat his lunch in.

And _still_ they didn't know his name.

Well guess what? There were four years between now and graduation. Every day he woke up was another day he woke up in _hell_. He tried to imagine doing this for four more years, for one more month, for one more day, for _one more second_. He couldn't

Oh he'd heard plenty of people preach about hell. It was supposed to be this place doused in fire where every single bad soul in the universe was sentenced to after death. It was supposed to hold hatred and betrayal, decreeing torture as the judgment for all who were sent there. But honestly, that sounded like a vacation to him from what he had to go through now. He couldn't possibly imagine a place worse than this one. Anywhere would be better. _Anywhere_.

He didn't fear death, he welcomed it.

So this was it. Fourteen years old, not even fifteen yet.

He wouldn't live to obtain that stupid diploma from McKinley High. He wouldn't get to decide which college to go to or what to do with the rest of his life. He'd never have his first job, his first boyfriend, his first kiss. He wouldn't know what it felt like to hold another person's hand or to hear someone say they loved him. He'd never find his niche; something he was really good at. He'd never feel proud of himself or know what it was like to have someone else be proud of him. He'd never know what mattering to someone would feel like.

If there were one person he'd want to say goodbye to, it'd be his dad. He purposely hadn't thought of him before this moment, because he knew he'd back down if he did. If there was one person, just one, who would notice his disappearance, it'd be his dad. And after losing his mom, too? This might just kill him.

But that was the thing about suicide. It wasn't about the people they were leaving behind, it was about the person who wanted to delete themselves from the face of the earth. He felt so hopeless; not even his father's love could save him right now. If only he'd had somebody, anybody to pull him back; to tell him to stop, to please not do this.

His phone sat on the bathroom countertop. The only person programmed into it was his Dad, so it seldom went off. He prayed to all the deities in the sky that the screen would light up _just this once_. With a spam text message or for no reason at all. This was the sign he asked for. If that phone lit up, he wouldn't do this. If someone reached out to him, he would stop.

The screen stayed black. Just like it always did.

He ran his hands along the slits on his thighs – always so strategically placed. There were other similar scars lining up right under his arms, along the sides of his torso. No one would've ever seen them. The long-term suffering had to come to and end and it had to come to an end now.

He turned over the handgun in his hands. The metal had been cool and foreign when he'd first taken it from his dad's nightstand, but now that he'd been holding it and studying it for a while, it didn't seem to be so scary. This would be the last thing he remembered: holding this gun. He didn't want to remember feeling scared; he wanted to remember feeling confident about something for the first time in his life even if the moment only lasted one second.

He held it in front of him. This device would be good to him. It would end the pain. It would end the suffering. It would end his self-hatred for good. It would silence his tears permanently and put him out of his misery. All those years of schoolyard oppression would come to an end right here and right now. All the years of being called names and being pushed around; all the injuries he hid from his father – both self-inflicted and caused by others – all the nights he'd cried himself to sleep, all of the stars he'd wished on for a friend – just _one_.

It had all led up to this moment. This one moment. And god damn it, he was going to remember this moment. He was going to remember how it felt to release himself from the shackles of his despair; that moment when he was lingering just on the edge of release – of _freedom_.

He put the gun to his head.

It would take one movement, one inch of movement from his finger. It'd take less than a second, he would barely feel any pain. It'd be over in less than a second if he could only bring himself to pull the trigger. He was one second away from nothingness.

Tears dripped off of his chin and onto his shirt. His vision was blurry, he couldn't even see his own reflection. There was a veil of tears in his eyes. He shook as they continued coming, running familiar paths down his cheeks. He didn't make a sound; he didn't whimper, he suppressed the gasps of his sobs, and swallowed his cries of agony. He stood silent, letting the tears run. He wouldn't make a sound - not one.

He closed his eyes and accepted his fate. In this moment he was in control. If there was ever anything he could dictate in his life, it would be the end of it. And the end was upon him. His finger moved against the trigger –

And his phone vibrated.

He was so shocked that he almost dropped the gun. He caught it just before it hit the floor, lunging for it. He caught it by the barrel, almost losing it through his sweat-slickened palms. He gingerly set it down on the bathroom rug before backing away a few steps.

He was shaking – his hands, his legs, his lips. Everything was shaking. He fumbled for the phone, which was still vibrating. That meant it was a call, not a text.

He let out the breath he'd been holding in a shuddery gasp before doing his best to collect himself. He didn't recognize the number on his screen but he pressed the green button anyways. He didn't know why he did, he should've just turned off the phone and continued on with his plan, but he didn't.

He answered it.

"H-Hello?" he asked into the receiver, teeth chattering as he sat down on the cool tile.

"Is this Kurt?" a voice asked. It was a girl. A_ girl_ was calling him.

"Y-yeah, that's me," he said softly. "Who is this?"

"Are you…crying?" the girl asked.

He hastily wiped his tears as if she could see. "No, I'm not crying, I'm fine," he said in a more firm voice. "I just…woke up from a nap. Can I help you?"

"I hope it's okay that I got your number from the student directory," she said, sounding unsure of herself. "I don't want to bother you…"

"No, it's fine," he assured her. He eyed the gun on the ground.

"Look, I know this is going to sound weird," she started. "We don't talk in school. But I see you in the hallways."

"You do?"

"Here's the thing," she said. "I'm in the Glee Club. Have you heard of it? We just started holding meetings last month."

"Never heard of it," he replied.

She laughed. How nice her laugh sounded. "Yeah, we're not exactly the coolest club on campus. I was noticing how…down you looked," she said softly. "And I was wondering, maybe you'd like to join?"

"I don't sing," Kurt lied.

"You don't have to sing," she said quickly. "I mean, if you don't want to. We need members and we're not even holding auditions right now. You could just come in tomorrow after school and see how you like it."

"I don't know…" he said, running his hand along the gun from where it rested just a foot away. "I might not be around tomorrow..."

"Whenever would fit in your schedule," she hurried to say. "There's no rush."

"Doesn't sound like my thing," he said through gritted teeth. "So if that's all, I have something to do …"

"Look, Kurt," she said. "If you ever needed a place to go, Glee Club is it. We're all friends – well, the four of us there are so far…" She paused for a moment. "It's _really_ fun and even if you just came to sit in the choir room for a little bit after school…that'd be fine."

He sniffled and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "I'll think about it," he snapped.

"We'd love to have you, Kurt."

"Y-you would?"

"Yeah, we've been discussing potential members all week and we all think you'd be great."

"Why?" he asked. "I'm the biggest reject in the school. No one notices me."

There was a shuffling as she switched the phone to her other ear. "And that makes you perfect for the Glee Club."

"I have to go," he said quickly, feeling fresh tears stinging behind his lids.

"So we'll see you tomorrow?" she asked before he could hang up. "We'll wait for you after school."

"Maybe," he said.

"My name is Mercedes," she said. "I should've mentioned it earlier but I didn't."

"That's a nice name," he commented. He stayed on the line one second longer before hitting the end button.

Then he couldn't hold it together one second longer. He was sick of being strong. He couldn't have held his mask of unfeeling for one moment longer even if he tried. The second she'd said they'd wait for him, he'd started shaking again. He let himself break down. For once in his life, he let it happen.

He cried like he'd never cried before – completely uninhibited. He let his shoulders shake violently with sobs, he didn't cover his face with his hands, he didn't wipe away the tears. He didn't bite back his cries, he didn't try to suppress himself. He didn't stay quiet. He rocked back and forth and clutched his arms, his face, his chest. He felt his skin and reveled in the fact that he was _alive_.

He felt the thumping of his heartbeat against his ribcage. It was still beating. He didn't want it to stop any time soon.

He gasped for air as he collapsed onto the floor. His hands were splayed against he tile and his head rested against the throw rug. He pulled his limbs close and hugged them to his torso. He'd never been more relieved in his life. He was alive. He was _alive_.

He kicked the handgun away from him, listening to it as it clattered against the porcelain of the bathtub.

He'd never cried so hard in his life. It would've physically hurt if it wasn't so gratifying. He was releasing all his pent up aggression, all his sorrow. It wasn't leaving him per say, but he was acknowledging it. He was admitting to himself just how broken he was. He was showing himself how bad it had _really_ gotten.

And this time he wasn't running away.

He heard the front door slam. His dad was home.

"Kurt, are you home?" he called from the foyer.

"I'm here," Kurt whispered. "_I'm here_."

* * *

><p><em>Made a wrong turn, Once or twice<br>Dug my way out, Blood and fire  
>Bad decisions, That's alright<br>Welcome to my silly life_

"Kurt, are you okay?" Blaine asked him.

Kurt was staring straight ahead, unfocused on anything. He was back in that bathroom. "I'm here," he said softly.

_Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood__  
><em>_Miss "no way, it's all good", It didn't slow me down__  
><em>_Mistaken, Always second guessing__  
><em>_Underestimated, Look, I'm still around_

* * *

><p>"Hey, what's the matter?" Blaine whispered.<p>

They were in the auditorium. The lights were dimmed. Santana had just stormed out of the theater seconds ago, Brittany on her heels. The rest of the Troubletones still stood on stage, looking very concerned. Rachel was talking to Finn who had a hand splayed against his cheek.

It was as if they could still hear the slap resonating through the empty seats.

"Nothing," Kurt said. He stood up abruptly. "I have to get out of here." He walked towards the side doors.

"Wait," Blaine called after him.

Kurt burst into the hallway and was momentarily blinded by the bright lights. It was deserted.

He started walking in the opposite direction. He didn't have a specific destination in mind, but he had to keep moving. He just had to keep walking.

Blaine followed him. "Kurt, wait."

"I just…I need a moment," Kurt called back, his voice strained.

It was all so fresh, the old wounds were open once again. He'd been thrown back to freshman year the second Santana had started yelling at Finn. It was as if he'd been transported back to that time; the images were still flashing in his mind. They switched rapidly from one picture to the next.

A brutal beating. A dodgeball. A razorblade in his hand, nails spattered with blood. The faces of his many tormentors from year to year. A gun resting on his bathroom floor.

Every name he'd ever been called and called himself came flooding back into his mind. His confident demeanor was faltering. His fourteen year old self was calling out to him. His head was spinning, his chest hurt. The shadowy hands of the past were reaching out for him, calling him back. Every ghost he'd ever shoved away had come back to haunt him from the second he'd looked into Santana's eyes – they were there too, lurking in her dark irises. They were the same demons.

"Faggot."

"Loser."

"Freak."

"Idiot."

"Disgusting."

"Abnormal."

"Weird."

"Waste of space."

"Go kill yourself."

"No one would notice if you died."

Kurt put out a hand and leaned into a locker. He wasn't any of those things. None of those things held any truth – not anymore. That's not who he was. He struggled to breathe, his chest felt so tight. Everything felt so wrong.

_You're so mean,__  
><em>_When you talk, About yourself, You are wrong.__  
><em>_Change the voices in your head__  
><em>_Make them like you Instead_

"Kurt," Blaine said, coming up beside him. He gripped Kurt's arm. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Kurt insisted, turning away from him. "I'm fine. I have to be fine."

"Talk to me," Blaine said, sounding helpless.

Kurt shook his head. "What just happened back there," he started, gesturing towards the theater. "I don't know. I feel sick, I have to get out of here."

He made a run for the bathroom.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later he found himself kneeling besides the bowl of a toilet, wiping his mouth after retching out the contents of his stomach. There were violent tremors going through his body, his hands shaking as he reached for the handle of the toilet to flush the discolored contents. He hung his head and wiped away the hot tears against his cheeks. He absentmindedly felt Blaine patting his back, but he made no move to get up.<p>

His legs sagged against the toilet and his hands were gripping the rim. His knuckles where white, he was gripping it so tight. He convulsed as his stomach turned again from the lingering smell. He bent over for a second round of vomiting. His throat was raw and his nose burned, but he couldn't stop it.

He spat into the toilet, sniffling and shivering.

"I don't want you to see this, Blaine," he choked out. "Just leave."

"I'm not going anywhere," the other boy said.

Kurt felt a soft material covering his shoulders. He touched one hand to the dark fabric of Blaine's cardigan. He pulled it closer around himself, trying to stifle the chills running through him. It helped a little bit, but not nearly enough. But it was enough to make him feel a little bit of strength returning to himself.

It was good to know he wasn't here alone.

_So complicated,__  
>'<em>_Look happy, you'll make it'__  
><em>_Filled with so much hatred__  
><em>_Such a tired game.__  
><em>_It's enough, I've done all I can think of__  
><em>_Chased down all my demons, I've seen you do the same_

* * *

><p>Kurt bent low over the sink, rinsing out his mouth with water. His stomach let out a sickening growl as he watched the contents of his mouth run down the drain. He took some water and splashed it on his face, letting his fingers linger against his worn eyelids. Blaine handed him a paper towel.<p>

He dabbed his face dry, taking deep breaths.

"Blaine, I didn't want you to see me like that…"

Blaine shook his head. "If you thought I was going to leave you alone in here, you were wrong. You know I'm always going to be there for you." He gave Kurt a small smile. "Even when you don't want me to." He gripped Kurt's shoulders and looked into his eyes. "Even if you won't tell me what's wrong."

"I'm sorry," Kurt apologized. "This is so stupid…"

"It's not stupid," Blaine assured him. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I can guess."

"I just…" Kurt faltered. "I remembered everything." He shook his head. "I was remembering when I didn't exactly have a Blaine Anderson in my life."

"Kurt…"

"Did I ever tell you that I tried to kill myself?" he confessed.

He could practically see every individual droplet of blood drain from Blaine's face. He didn't say anything, but his eyes grew hard and his grip tightened on Kurt's shoulders.

"It was only once," Kurt admitted. "It was a serious attempt. I'll never forget," he recalled. "It was the seventh of December, freshman year. It was sunny that day," he mused. "I was home alone…"

* * *

><p>Blaine wiped the tears out of his eyes. Kurt had fallen silent, his story finished, minutes ago and now Blaine was the one shaking.<p>

"Kurt," he began, his voice unsteady, "If I had _any _idea how bad it had really gotten for you…"

"No, you couldn't have known," Kurt said. "After I joined Glee Club, things _were_ better. I felt like I could be more of myself, so I started dressing how I wanted and singing Broadway tunes." He gave Blaine a brave smile. "It was better. So much better."

"But last year…"

"Last year I became a target again. I could handle it when we were being bullied as a group, but when I was singled out…it brought back those memories. And then when Dave threatened my life – I had never been that scared before in my life." He nodded to himself. "I started believing those things again. I was scared that if I stayed here, I might get to that point again. So I ran."

"You came to Dalton," Blaine said, knowing this part of the story.

"You know what the funny thing is?" Kurt asked. "Mercedes _still_ doesn't know, to this day, that her phone call saved my life. None of them know. None of them _really_ know."

"Kurt, I'm so sorry," Blaine said, his voice cracking. "I'm _so sorry_ you ever had to go through that."

"It's Santana," Kurt said. "She's reaching that point right now. I can see it in her eyes." He shook his head. "It's enough to bring me back and remember when things weren't always this easy."

"You have me," Blaine told him, taking Kurt's hands in his own. "You have me now and I'm _never_ going to let that happen to you again."

"I know," Kurt replied softly, pressing his forehead against Blaine's. "I know you won't."

Blaine pulled him close, wrapping Kurt up in his arms. "I'm sorry," he repeated into Kurt's hair.

Kurt let his head sag into the crook of Blaine's neck. He closed his eyes and just breathed him in – that soothing, familiar scent of Blaine. His hands were splayed across Blaine's back and it felt good to feel the warmth emanating from him into his own body. He started to feel the muscles in his body loosen up and his shaking lessened. He pressed a soft kiss to Blaine's neck.

Blaine rubbed Kurt's back comfortingly. He murmured "I love you's" and other consoling phrases. He was reminding Kurt just by being there that this was a different time and a different place; this was a different Kurt.

They stood like that, intertwined with one another, in silence – the boys who had saved each other in more ways than one.

_If you ever, ever feel__  
><em>_Like your nothing__  
><em>_You're perfect to me_

* * *

><p><em>AN: Huge thanks to **iklaintevenmad** who insisted I listen to 'Perfect' and write a one-shot inspired by it. Yes, this is very much what I think of when I remember how Burt said Glee club saved Kurt's life. Add in the lyrics of Perfect and the entire Santana debacle, and this is how I feel. I don't think either one of us thought it'd turn into this._

_Thank you so much to those of you who took the time to soldier through it and read. I love you all!_

**_Let me know what you thought: Review!_**


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